


Finding is the first Act

by middlemarch



Category: Mercy Street (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen, Meeting, Poetry, Pre-War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-14
Updated: 2016-09-14
Packaged: 2018-08-15 01:23:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8036758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/middlemarch/pseuds/middlemarch
Summary: Gustav von Olnhausen hears something he had never anticipated.





	Finding is the first Act

“Over there I glimpse pretty hills,/ Ever young and ever green!/ If I had flight, if I had wings,/ I would float over to those hills.”

Gustav von Olnhausen had not thought to hear something so familiar and painfully lovely— _ah Sehnsucht!_ as he walked back to his boarding house after a long day in the mill’s laboratory. He looked about, confused as to the source of the lyric, but it could only be the young woman just in front of him, deep in conversation with her companion, another young lady, their wide, dark skirts dragging a bit on the planked sidewalk, their faces hidden by the full brims of their bonnets. He had not been intending to eavesdrop and was walking a decorous distance behind them, but the speaker’s clear voice, her Manchester vowels precise and a little clipped to his ear, had carried and his mind had recognized the poem before he was fully aware he was listening. “ _Dort erblick' ich schöne Hügel,/ Ewig jung und ewig grün!/ Hätt' ich Schwingen hätt ich Flügel,/ Nach den Hügeln zög' ich hin,_ ” he heard within, the voice of his mind reciting the evocative, transporting words, an echo of the contralto ahead of him. 

He felt the harmony of the ephemeral longing the poem spoke of, counterpoint to the more grounding, stolid homesickness he had felt since coming to this place, though he had planned for many months to make the journey and had been well-satisfied with the position, the mill’s equipment surpassing his expectations as had the welcome of his fellow chemists. He had traveled before but never this far and for this long—indeed, he expected to make America his new home and anticipated he would only receive letters from his sister, his aunts and cousins while he lived. When he left, they had said farewell, not imagining they would ever meet again. There would be no more of Anneliese’s hearty _Leberknödel_ or her winter _Bratapfel_ , _Alpenkräuter-Brot_ in the Christmas market, sweet with peel, spiced with cloves and their wonderful heat. He had not understood how much he enjoyed these things until they were beyond any hope of return and he tried to develop a taste for boiled cornmeal and stewed mutton that the matron of his rooming house, a spare Mrs. Derry, seemed to rely upon and to make up their sorry lack of flavor with the fresh, green fragrance the beech trees brought to the dusty thoroughfares, the rare taste of maple syrup doled out on Sundays before the men dispersed for church services.

“…Golden fruit I see glowing,/ beckoning between dark leaves;/ and the flowers that bloom there,” he heard and he spoke before he could think better of it, before he had thought at all it seemed.

“I beg your pardon, do you read Schiller in translation, then?”

He had raised his voice to be heard despite the distance and it was enough to startle the women so that they stopped and turned to face him. He recognized he had broken the etiquette of any civilized society; even more relaxed Manchester would be astonished that he had addressed two unknown women in the street, and he knew he must apologize in the most formal terms, had even begun to bow slightly, when he was interrupted.

“Not generally, though I admit I have cheated at times. I prefer to read him in German but to recite, I mustn’t attempt it, my accent is horrid,” the speaker of the poem said, as cheerfully forthcoming as if they were friends of many years. Even among Americans, he thought this was not the common way. 

She was a young woman, fair, with bright dark eyes. He could not fail to note that the inside of her somewhat dull bonnet was lined with silk dyed aniline purple, the shade vivid and unexpectedly stylish given the lack of ribbon or flowers ornamenting the bonnet’s brim. Her entire ensemble was sensible and subdued with only the brilliant violet a suggestion of anything extraordinary. For so she must be, a young woman walking home from her employment at a mill who read Schiller in German and who spoke quite openly and without any coyness or disdain to a man who addressed her in the street. She regarded him directly too, her gaze candid, while her companion laid a careful, gloved hand on her arm as if to remind her of where they were and what was appropriate.

“I must apologize to you, we have not been formally introduced and I recognize just how unusual it is for me to have spoken to you. I am Baron Gustav von Olnhausen, recently arrived from Saxony, and I must beg your forgiveness for any transgression, I am not entirely familiar yet with American society.”

He completed the bow he had begun and then looked at the young woman; she was smiling, a small smile as if she were trying to contain a more ebullient expression, but her eyes were still so bright, friendly and intelligent. He reflected on how frankly she had spoken, how quick she was to share her abilities but also what she perceived as her short-comings. She had such an engaging air and he had been lonely since he stepped off the ship in Boston Harbor—he could not resist trying to further the acquaintance if she gave him any suggestion with her response that she would welcome him.

“How do you do, Baron von Olnhausen? Is that the correct way to address you? We don’t have such titles here but we may still be courteous about using them properly, I think. I am Miss Phinney and this is my friend, Miss Adams,” she said, dipping into a slight, graceful curtsy and then tilting her head a little, invitingly. Miss Adams was more circumspect, remaining silent and barely moving, although she was not indifferent or dismissive, regarding him with a cautious gaze. She appeared a little older or perhaps it was only that she was less appealing than brown-eyed, pink-cheeked Miss Phinney.

“Miss Phinney, you are very kind to a stranger. Baron von Olnhausen or even Mr. von Olnhausen are both acceptable, though the latter is more democratic and I would hazard, better suited to New Hampshire. Would you allow me to escort you back to your boarding house?” he replied, feeling bold as a young man, as he had been in at university.

“But, you are not a stranger, are you, Baron von Olnhausen? For we are acquaintances now and even more, I suspect you may be as fond of Herr Schiller as I am,” she said amicably and stepped aside a bit so he might walk next to her and the quiet Miss Adams, whose bonnet was lined in a dull brown silk, likely dyed with madder and iron as mordant, unprepossessing as the woman who wore it. He wondered how she felt to be paired with Miss Phinney, whose wit and vivacity overshadowed her—was Miss Adams jealous or did she seek the protection of her more vibrant companion? He could not hazard a guess—the hearts and minds of young women remained a mystery to him, his love of Annaliese and his lost Adelheid notwithstanding.

“I had not known just how fond I was of Schiller until I came to America, I think, Miss Phinney. Is he so popular here as he is in Germany?” Gustav asked, more to encourage her to speak again and hope she might say something else that would reveal more of her. He was utterly charmed by her, her American forthrightness, her fresh, pretty face and graceful figure, that flash of violet around her face like a chemical corona, and a sense of her rare mind, for even in Boston, he did not think most women would speak so of their intellectual interests and endeavors.

“I think there are a select few who favor him, he has not the following of Mr. Longfellow or Mr. Whittier, but I suppose we are always partial to our countrymen. Herr Schiller’s writing can be so… exhilarating, I can’t think he has an equal but I haven’t made great inroads yet with Herr Goethe,” Mary replied, clearly pleased to discuss a topic many would find dull or unwomanly.

“But you prefer to read in German, you said? There must be a very fine ladies’ academy in Manchester to teach German and not only French,” he offered.

“I can’t say I have a wide enough experience to judge the quality of the academy, but they did have a German tutor for a space of six months and I made sure to avail myself of Herr Mueller’s services. I don’t know if it was our Manchester winter or some other reason, but he departed then, and I have made do with the German grammar I have, my memory of his lessons, and the volumes I have of Herr Schiller and Goethe’s work. I am a slow student, I fear, but the loftiness of the verse is a fine incentive and a fair teacher. Any struggles I have must be only my own fault. I find I make easier progress with Herr Gauss and Euler, but they are less helpful for my German; both rely on Latin and the language of equations more than their mother tongue,” Mary explained.

“ _Ach du liebe Zeit!_ Miss Phinney, you read Gauss in Latin?” Gustav exclaimed, so startled he stopped walking and stared at the young woman beside him. It was unheard of, that any woman would be so well-educated, notwithstanding that Miss Phinney appeared to be only of moderate means. Even in America, Miss Phinney was set apart, by her learning, her investment in widening her sphere, and her honesty about both. Indeed, after her latest remark, Miss Adams admonished her, “Now, Mary! Please, consider what you say… and to whom!” 

Miss Phinney, Miss Mary Phinney he now knew, blushed then and lowered her eyelids, the picture of demure womanhood. He wished to praise her, to encourage her for her endeavors and what it must cost her to make them, and he wished to say something that would make her raise her eyes to regard him again. A memory of Adelheid surfaced, how shy she could be and how he might coax her back with some proverb or platitude uttered almost airily, how he had used one gentle finger to lift her chin when they were engaged. She had been more fair than Miss Phinney, her hair auburn, her eyes dark blue not brown, but there was something of her in Mary Phinney’s delicate features, the light in her gaze. He thought carefully about what he might say to the young woman beside him when she spoke again, with only slightly more hesitation.

“I beg your pardon, Baron von Olnhausen. I sometimes fail to remember not all are so interested in these fields as I am and that it, they are not so worthy of discussion. My mother would be sure to take me to task for speaking so to you and as we walk through the city streets no less. I can’t imagine what you think of me but I do apologize,” she said, abashed and yet there was something else, a hint of frustration perhaps? That she might not share her thoughts, must always strive to contain herself or follow first the rules of polite society? It had been hard to leave Germany and forgo the pleasures of family life, but he had found the politics becoming unbearable, completely antithetical to his own views and wondered if there was something similar for Miss Mary Phinney, who might bristle at a society that made her study privately and expected her to refrain from speaking her mind or even admitting to having one.

“You have not given any offense, Miss Phinney, and I must offer my sincere apology as well for my outburst just now. I cannot say I have ever met anyone who has studied as you have, such a wide-ranging interest, and I am unsure if that is because I am unfamiliar with my adopted country or for… another reason. But please, do not chastise yourself for how you have spoken. I have found our conversation most edifying…and most delightful,” he said, pausing a little. Mary seemed to have regained her bright aspect and Miss Adams appeared mollified. 

“I wonder though, if I am not speaking out of turn myself, if I might call on you at your boarding house? It would be such a generous gift if you would consent to read a little Schiller with me and perhaps, that is, perhaps I might be able to supplement your prior tutelage a bit. With Goethe, I find sometimes a passage may be… thorny, difficult to untangle, and you had said your accent was not what you would wish, but Schiller begs to be read aloud… it would so very little for me to offer a correction in pronunciation or inflection,” Gustav suggested. 

The image was enticing, to sit in a pleasant sitting room on a Sunday afternoon, quietly reading aloud the best of poetry, learning more about the intriguing young woman beside him. Would she furrow her brow in concentration or laugh at her errors? He suspected there would be few. She might welcome him sharing a few of his own books to enlarge her library, the novelty alone an attraction before she discovered the beauty of the text. And he was a man, far from home—to be greeted in a comfortable parlor and spend a few hours with a lovely and intelligent young woman, to receive all the pretty gestures attendant to hospitality from those hands ungloved, to watch her pour out the coffee and bask in the cheerful domesticity of the service, was entirely appealing. He could only hope she would agree.

“I’m afraid you may not call upon me in my boarding house, Baron von Olnhausen,” she began and Gustav was surprised at the dismay he felt, how sharp it was, what it meant to have hoped to further this acquaintance and to be denied. He took a step back, ready to retreat to formality to preserve his dignity, a salve for his smarting pride. He forced his face to impassivity that was quickly dispelled by Miss Phinney’s explanation.

“For I live with my elder brother, Mr. George Phinney and his dear wife, Abigail, and their children on Spruce Street. But I think I may invite you to call upon us there and I cannot imagine but that George will be most happy to make your acquaintance. He is a lawyer by profession but enjoys a lively discussion wherever he finds one and would be eager to hear your impressions of Manchester and Germany, the working of the mill, your voyage. My sister Abigail is a formidable cook and she will ply you with every local delicacy if you show even the slightest partiality for sweet or savory, I warn you now. And then, if you are still minded, we might sit and study a little while. I should so like to hear “Longing” in proper German, though, of course, I understand if there is another poem you prefer,” Miss Phinney said. 

Her smile had been impish as she extended the invitation but had softened as she spoke of the poem. Was she envisioning the afternoon as he had—Gustav in his Sunday best, his coat freshly brushed and linen snowy, reciting "Sehnsucht" or listening closely as she made her own careful attempt? Was it possible that it was not only the promise of further education that attracted her but himself, a middle-aged German Baron of such modest means he’d had little choice but to emigrate, a little grey at the temples, with fingers stained from the reagents he handled? Was even to think it overweening pride, soon to be dashed?

“There is nothing else I could prefer, Miss Phinney. You do me a great honor,” he replied, startled again by her interruption.

“Nonsense! Let us not speak so, that I do you any honor in asking you to call, all that polite fol-de-rol. I would be glad to talk further in a more congenial setting and you may very well regret your eagerness today when I become too enthusiastic about verb tenses or regale you about Herr Euler. I’ve been told I can be a bit… exuberant about my books, though I hope that Abigail’s squash pie will offset any of my failings,” she said. 

He didn’t think it was possible to regret what she described, her lively, engaging approach, a discussion of agreeably diverse topics, her dark eyes merry and inquisitive throughout, sunshine round her braided hair instead of the violet silk she wore now. And yet, it didn’t seem she was hoping for some gracious compliment, but meant to forestall any disappointment.

“Squash pie is quite an inducement, in any case. Wouldn’t you agree, Miss Adams?” Gustav said, seeking to conclude the discussion as properly as he could, knowing now that it was a postponement and not weighted with finality.

“Mmm, yes. I suppose. Mrs. Phinney does set a fine table,” Miss Adams agreed.

“I will bid you ladies farewell, then, but I will hope to see you this Sunday, Miss Phinney. I have not your expertise in reading the mathematicians, not what a chemist should, so perhaps in exchange for “Sehnsucht,” you may tutor me a little and see what caliber of student I may be,” Gustav said, bowing formally as the women made little curtsies. 

Miss Adams’s face told of her relief that the conversation and encounter should be ended, but Miss Mary Phinney had a difference expression altogether, an air of hopeful expectation and amiability with just enough amusement and womanly invitation that he thought he might find a way, between formulae and declensions, to interject “ _…Ein Mädchen, schön und wunderbar,_ ” and explain the source and its relevance, to watch the color rise in her cheeks, vivid, without anything to act as mordant.

**Author's Note:**

> So, here is my Gustav and Mary meet-cute story, complete with Schiller. I am imagining Gustav to both look like Michael Kitchen of Foyle's War but also to be similar in character to Christopher Foyle himself. I tried pretty hard to get all the German correct but forgive me my trespasses there... Feel free to look up the dyes Gustav is referencing-- they are quite brilliant. Gauss and Euler are two famous 18th century mathematicians-- I have had Mary reading Gauss in multiple stories. There is a Spruce St. in Manchester but I borrowed brother George from emmadelosnardos's fanon I believe. Squash pie was a popular New England dessert. "Ach du liebe Zeit!" should mean something like, Oh my goodness but I admit I found this online as I don't speak German.
> 
> The title is from Emily Dickinson, of course.


End file.
